The Way Things Were
by Blackbirdflies
Summary: Alleyway. 20 minutes. She crumpled the note in her hand and tried to slow her beating heart. Of course it was him, who else could it be? Post-Reichenbach. All Sherlock wants is to go back to normalcy; Irene is his first step in that direction.
1. 20 Minutes

Hello. Here's the first chapter to a fic that I will hopefully be updating again soon. Please review with any suggestions or critiques (especially of character, I strive to be in character as much as possible).

Suggested listening: Moby Apparat Dub ( watch?v=J4FQhE2A9vk)

* * *

_Alleyway. 20 minutes._

She crumpled the note in her hand and tried to slow her beating heart. The ink was black and scratched out in a hurry. Taking no chances she swiftly tossed the scrap of paper into a glass of water, watching the dark ink seep out of its fibres before turning clear again.

There was no use searching the crowd for his face, he would already be gone. Of course it was him, who else could it be? That chicken scratch of his would be recognizable to her anywhere, even though it seemed as if he had made some attempt at changing his style.

She smiled at a customer, placing a martini in front of him and ignoring his friend's obvious interest in catching a glance of her behind. Her head was pounding with so many thoughts and questions that it was almost overwhelming. She had to put them out of her mind for the time being, hoping that he would give her at least some answers to the questions that had plagued her for these past couple of months.

Knowing him she would be left more confused after this meeting than before it.

* * *

A dark figure leaned against the cold stone alley wall. It was silent except for the faint looming and retreat of cars in the distance. He took a cigarette between his fingers, knowing well that this was the last he would have for a long time. God, he would miss it.

He pulled out a hotel matchbook from his trouser pocket and struck a light, holding the flame close to his face as he lit the cigarette between his lips. Deep drag in, long breath out. Nicotine was certainly not his drug of choice, but it would have to do under the circumstances.

Smoke billowed out from between his lips into the brisk night air. It was almost spring and the muddy water was a welcome change to the biting frost. If only this cigarette would last him until spring... he would undoubtedly fare better.

14 minutes.

* * *

"Waitress!"

_Not now, _she thought, turning her attention to an obviously plastered twenty year old blonde woman.

"How can I help you?"

"Another vodka and tonic please." The woman flitted her eyes at a painfully uncomfortable man seated across from her. A former lover, they happened to run into each other and the blonde hadn't stopped talking about their broken relationship for the past hour. The man had his hand discreetly on his cell phone under the table and was attempting to blind-text an SOS to a friend. From the motion of his thumb it looked like he was attempting to text: "Help me."

She yearned for her cell phone, but that was long gone now.

"Will do." She replied to the woman, giving her a thin-lipped smile.

10 minutes.

* * *

_The woman. _He smiled to himself, playing with the words in his mind. _That woman._

How long had it been since Pakistan? Months. He preferred not to think about those days in between. The life of a nobody had worn on him; how he longed to simply be himself again. It felt as though she was the first step to himself.

Of course she wouldn't be surprised that he was alive, she of all people knew how to play dead. He crinkled his nose, examining the smouldering cigarette stub between his fingers.

There were at least three drags left and he would make sure to get all of them. Every last bit. Anyways, she was bound to be coming towards the back door just about now.

* * *

Inhale.

She placed her palm on the door and slowly pushed it open to find herself staring out into the almost pitch black alleyway. He stood to her right, leaning against the wall with his head bent down. He tossed the butt of a cigarette to the ground. There was no way to stop the pounding of her heart.

They waited until the door clicked shut behind her before looking at each other. She felt as though her breathing was too loud for the silence. It took a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the dim light before she could see him properly.

He was blonde. A smile crept onto the corners of her mouth as she compared her own locks to his. Great minds think alike. Though, upon reflection, blonde was not the best choice for two natural dark brunettes. Upkeep could cost a fortune.

He was wearing a tweed coat with a collared shirt underneath. No signature scarf to keep his throat warm. His trousers were khaki and ironed with a permanent crease down the middle. It seemed as though he was going for the 'most boring man alive' look.

Of course he could never pull that off. Not as long as she was looking at him.

"You're not dead." She was always the first to speak.

"I'm sure you already knew that."

He turned his head toward her, the faint light from the front street illuminating him from behind. Her stomach flipped. Did she look that bad? No, she couldn't. He looked as though he had had no sleep for weeks; she at least managed an hour or two per night. His face looked grey as the shadows settled in the hollows beneath his cheekbones.

"God Sherlock. Where have you been?"

"It's not important where I was. What's important is that I'm here now and that I'm asking you for a favour."

She leaned forward, almost placing a hand upon his arm but pulling herself back. _No need for excess feelings, you have enough of your own problems to deal with. _But of course she'd help him in any way she could, it was the least she could do to repay him. The man had risked his life for her for Christ's sake.

_I couldn't bear losing a great mind._

No, those thoughts couldn't dare enter her mind. She had to keep herself clear, on top of her game; thoughts of the past weren't of importance. Reason was imperative in these unstable times.

"Of course." She told him in response to his request.

"I'll need somewhere private to stay for a few weeks."

It seemed as though he was keeping his information tight, at least in this alleyway where anyone could be listening around the corner. She understood his reluctance and hoped that he would tell her more later.

"I've plenty of those," she told him, searching through addresses in her mind before arriving at a suitable match, "8 Corsham Street. Key code is 34821."

"I'm glad you have a supply." Sherlock said, slightly wishing that he had asked for her aide sooner. There was a pause, both of them unsure what to say next. Unsure of what they _could _say.

He was looking at her hair, a dull blonde that was knotted into a bun on the top of her head. She was wearing a tightly fitted black dress, cheaply made and only worn for work purposes. He praised her ability to walk in high heels for eight hour shifts, a barbaric practice that was wholly unfair for the waitresses. Yet, she undoubtedly had plenty of practice.

"I have to get back now." She told him, the silence had hung in the air as she watched his eyes flit over her. He was obviously deducing as much as he could about her current status. Surprisingly, he wasn't telling her all about it. Instead, he kept his thoughts to himself and simply nodded his head.

"Thank you Irene."

"Don't come back here." She said, keeping her voice calm. She couldn't risk them being seen together in public, someone might make the connection. Though they had different appearances, they could not change their faces.

He simply nodded his head before turning around to leave. Part of her wanted to grab him and drag him back to her, but the rational part knew that it would be unwise. They both had their own problems to deal with before they could start creating them together.

The alleyway was empty now. The wind picked up and raised goose bumps on her bare arms. Despite the chill she couldn't help but stare at the spot where he had been, watching as the ember of his cigarette stub slowly faded on the wet cobblestone.


	2. Mind Palace

This chapter is a bit shorter. Though I have written more, I wasn't quite sure where to stop to make a chapter break. This just means that I'll be updating again quite soon!

* * *

The street was empty; not surprising since it was about 3AM by the time Sherlock got to the flat Irene had supplied him with. He punched the code she had given him into the front door panel. The door buzzed and he yanked it open quickly.

It was a small apartment complex, only four flats in total. Number 8 was on the upper floor. He decided to take the stairs. He may have been feeling weak, but he didn't feel like running the chance of meeting any of his neighbours in the lift. The flat was at the end of a short hallway which was blindingly white under the fluorescent lighting.

The door was locked, no keypad for the code. He took a step back to survey the situation; there must be a hidden key. It took a total of five seconds for him to lift up the vent on the floor beside the entrance, grab the key that was trapped between the metal plate and the carpet, and enter the flat.

Blackout curtains made it impossible for Sherlock to see anything immediately. There was no possibility of turning on the lights, since the apartment might be assumed vacant. No use arousing the suspicion of his neighbours.

As his eyes adjusted to the dim light he could make out the outline of a couch and coffee table near the far end of the room. No television. He circled the room once before heading up the stairs to the half-level above. There was a sparse kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom. Little to no furniture, absolutely nothing personally identifying.

Perfect.

Sherlock took off his blazer and placed it on the kitchen counter. He assumed this was a flat of one of Irene's old clients. It looked to be a place for brief affairs; a weekend getaway for a rich businessman and his mistresses. Judging from the popular area and the modern amenities Sherlock deduced that the apartment's market value was somewhere around £500,000.

He went into the bedroom and sat down slowly on the edge of the king-size bed. For once in his life he actually felt tired, the lack of sleep finally cracking his stoic exterior. Though he didn't feel like taking off his clothes he forced himself to, not wanting to seem wrinkled in the morning. These were his only clothes and he didn't want to raise any sort of suspicion. The goal was the blend into the background and anything out of the ordinary was bound to draw glances on the subway.

Clad in only his boxer shorts, he laid down on top of the comforter, head sinking into the pillow. There was a faint aroma of woman's perfume to the pillow; not Irene's. It was too cheap to satisfy her decadent tastes.

When it came down to it, Sherlock couldn't fall asleep. His mind had latched onto broken thoughts and he now spent the last of his energy trying to piece them together. The nicotine had caused a rush of blood to his head, giving his deductive abilities a boost. He almost felt like himself again.

_She was working as a waitress, not for long only about 3 weeks. Her coworkers were still giving her orders like she was new; she hid her annoyance at them well. It was a medium-end bar and restaurant, mostly catering to the young at night. She looked sleep-deprived, bags under her eyes. _

He had watched her earlier that night, sitting near the back with only a glass of water to sip on. They almost hadn't let him in; he was definitely not their desired clientele. No matter. He managed to sneak by the hostess by bumping into a woman who promptly spilled her drink upon the floor.

_Why work there? There must be a reason why, she can't have been low on funds. Surely she had saved enough money from her dominatrix career to last her years. There must have been someone important there that she was spying on or trying to get information from._

His mind clicked as he sifted through the faces he had noticed in the bar. Eyes shut tight and palms flat together in a prayer position beneath his chin, he went to his mind palace.

_Ten twenty-year old girls in total, nothing interesting there to go on. Thirteen men, ten in their twenties and three in late thirties. Irene had served five of those men, three of them had taken the opportunity to survey her assets. Ah yes, she had glanced back at one of them. A twenty-six or seven year old man -dark brown crew cut hair- wearing an upper end suit with sterling silver cuff links. Now, what was it about him?_

_He was some sort of an accountant, taking the time to calculate the tip by hand on a napkin. His companions were also in their late twenties, obviously lower down on the corporate food chain than he was. He had a briefcase with him, odd for a night out with the friends. That means he had probably just left work, a late night worker. Probably working overtime, no immediate family to get home to. AH, YES! Irene had looked at that briefcase. There was something in there that she wanted, that was it. But what? _

He spent twenty more minutes sifting through information but came to a dead end. There was no way of telling what was in that briefcase without having a bit more information. This annoyed him. At least it would give him something to research. Maybe he could help her with her business, depending on what it was.

Coming to that conclusion Sherlock finally drifted off to sleep. Three hours had passed since he had entered the flat and the sun was slowly peeking over the horizon. Not that he cared about keeping normal hours for his natural circadian rhythm.

His body simply adapted to the workings of his mind.


	3. The Game is On

Thank you for reading! Once again, I appreciate any suggestions or critiques.

* * *

Sherlock slept uninterrupted until four o'clock that evening, dreaming of nothing and awaking with the sense that he hadn't actually slept at all. It was a bit disorientating, not having any natural light to alert you of the time of day.

Suddenly, the sound of a key in the lock downstairs caused Sherlock to switch into high alert. He quickly got out of bed and stood with his back against the wall next to his bedroom door. He listened intently while configuring all possible escape routes in his mind.

The front door clicked shut behind the intruder. He could hear the tap of high heels on the hardwood floor and assumed that it was probably her. Taking no chances, he waited in suspense until he heard her voice.

"It's me, come out wherever you are," she called from the floor below.

Sherlock put on his trousers and white shirt, buttoning up as he walked down the stairs. She had cleaned up compared to last night; her long blonde hair has been let down and straightened. She had on pink lipstick and a light coat of mascara. She looked up at him, smiling from the corner of her mouth.

"It looks like you had a good sleep."

"It was needed," Sherlock replied, glancing down at the grocery bag in her hand then back up to her face again. "I see you've brought breakfast."

"Supper," Irene replied, walking over to the coffee table and placing the bag upon it. She took a step back and looked over the apartment. "This place belonged to a customer; he brought me here once and made me spank him against the wall while he cried like a baby."

Sherlock stared blankly at her, feeling absolute disgust at society and its sexual shortcomings. If only everyone could override their sexual impulses and simply use logic then scientific advancements would be occurring at a much faster pace.

"That's unfortunate," he told her, heading toward the bag and pulling out a takeout container. He flipped open the lid and saw that it was a Thai stirfry, the steam wafting into his face. He grabbed a plastic fork that was in the bag and sat down on the couch, perched like a bird with the container balanced on the top of his knees.

"What's the plan?" Irene asked.

"I stay here until the rest of my plans to come to fruition. Then I can go tell John that I'm alive."

"And give him a heart attack."

Sherlock smiled at this, shoving a mouthful of food into his mouth. Irene had never seen the man eat like this... come to think of it; she had never seen him eat at all. It must have been weeks since he'd last had a solid meal.

"Look Sherlock, I won't be around very much, I have my own problems to deal with right now."

"I wasn't expecting you to be around."

"Yes," Irene said, pausing to consider her situation. "I'm sure you can take care of yourself, though I'm not sure how good that is for your health."

Sherlock didn't respond to her comment. She took a few steps around the apartment, noticing nothing out of the usual. She would hate for it to be bugged, but the man who owned this place didn't seem like the 'planning ahead' type.

"What's in the briefcase?" Sherlock suddenly asked.

This threw Irene off for a moment. Of course he would have noticed; nothing escaped him.

"Government documents."

Sherlock froze, letting the last of the noodles on his fork tumble back into the container.

"Oh... Of course! Why hadn't I thought of that?"

"What?" Irene said.

"You're working for Mycroft aren't you? After we came back from Karachi you went to him with a work proposal -flaunting your quite impressive manipulation skills- in return for government protection. So where are you living now, Buckingham Palace?"

"Very good Mr. Holmes," Irene told him, impressed at his ability to come to an almost correct conclusion with so little information to go on. "I _am_ working for Mycroft, but not under the circumstances you so flatteringly suggested. He forced me to work with him, threatening death if I didn't agree to tax collection for the British government. When I got back it seemed as though someone had immediately tipped him off that I wasn't actually dead."

Part of that was a lie. She watched his face closely to see if he had noticed.

Meanwhile Sherlock was cursing himself for not assuming that Mycroft would be the force behind the plan. That swine was using her skills in the most boring manner possible; a woman like Irene was not meant for cases of trivial tax evasion.

He had had enough of his food and placed it back on the table, folding his hands under his chin and sinking into deep thought.

"Well at least you seem to be looking better. Nice disguise by the way; nondescript office worker I suppose?" she asked.

"Nobody," Sherlock replied.

"Pardon?"

"I'm nobody; I simply blend into the background. There's nothing to notice if nobody is there."

Irene glanced down at her own appearance: faded blue jeans, black down jacket, cheap pleather purse. Once again, they seemed to be thinking along the same lines. Even though she had the protection of the British government behind her it didn't mean that she was safe from old foes. Many people wanted her head on a silver platter, so she made sure to keep her real head hidden.

Sherlock continued, "at least this way I can go outside."

"Yes, you weren't exactly very nondescript before, were you?" Irene said with a smile. She could have sworn that she saw a grin on Sherlock's lips, but he had turned his head away from her and was looking at the blackout curtains now.

"Taxes then?" he asked.

"Yes, high profile tax evaders. Taking the money that the British government so desperately needs... apparently."

Sherlock scoffed at this and spun around to face her again, his eyes dancing with amusement.

"You should go investigate Mycroft himself. He has enough money to single-handedly run the British government in his personal bank account."

"I'm not getting involved with your little brotherly feud," Irene said, "I need to close this case soon."

"I can look into it," Sherlock replied before Irene even finished her sentence. She knew that would be the first thing he would say.

"No, you need to keep a low profile. I don't want you to get involved."

Sherlock looked as though he had gone into a pout, but he understood where Irene was coming from. It was a daft thing to suggest, he would just have to work on the case alone for his own curiosity-sake.

"I'm going to leave now; I won't be back for awhile. Do eat while I'm away," Irene said.

She was looking down at him and he was staring blankly into space once again. Holding a conversation with the man had become more difficult when he wasn't feigning interest in her. He was constantly slipping in and out of a reverie, always analyzing everything even when there was nothing to analyze.

There seemed to be a block between them now, something had changed since they had parted. Possibly it was the events following Karachi; not that it should have changed anything. They were quite rational people, and Sherlock of all people should be able to see past those events. But it was probably something else entirely. So much had happened in both of their lives since then it felt as though they were living in different spheres.

Sherlock suddenly spoke:

"I do hope this cycle of favours will end."

_Always the asshole; he couldn't help it, could he? _

Irene faked a smile, "it must. Eventually."

Surprisingly, throughout the entire conversation is seemed as though Sherlock hadn't noticed any of her lies. It was for the best, she couldn't risk having Sherlock getting _too_ interested in her affairs. She smiled as she closed the door behind her. Yet, there always was the chance that he _had _noticed them and was playing her at her own game.

Oh, how she had missed this fun.


	4. Thank You

I apologize for the slight delay in updating, school has just been winding up for the term. This chapter and the following one are "flash-backs" of what happened following ASiB.  
Also, a warning: I have always intended this fic to turn into an M rating (how could I resist?), and I suspect it will next chapter.  
Enjoy!

* * *

Karachi, Pakistan

They entered a small bedroom, Irene collaped onto the bed while Sherlock leaned against the wall for support. Four hours had passed since Sherlock had rescued her and chopped off the head of her executioner. Four hours since she'd been given back her life.

_"Run."_

She threw her cellphone into her chador, tucking it into the pocket of the shirt she was wearing beneath. Immediately she got to her feet, not taking the time to glance behind her at the carnage Sherlock was wreaking with his machete. He had told her to run, therefore she ran. There was no time for worrying about his safety.

Her pulse beat heavily at her neck as she sprinted down the pavement. They had been stationed on a helicopter landing pad which led to a small rebel encampment to the north. South it was then.

_But where am I supposed to go?_

She could hear the grunts behind her fading as she got further from the wreckage. It seemed as though no one was currently following her, but they had probably already sent out an alert to the base camp. She had about two minutes to think before vehicles caught up to her.

Eyes sweeping the area, straining in the dim light. Her heart was beating in her ears, her head ringing from the rush of adrenaline. _Think, think, _she told herself, trying to calm down enough to pay proper attention to her surroundings.

Suddenly her eyes flashed to the ground, a glint of silver catching the corner of her eye.

_You see but you do not observe._

But Irene did observe, and Sherlock knew it. She bent down and snatched a pistol that had been hidden in the tall grass surrounding the asphalt. She placed her finger carefully over the trigger, keeping prepared just in case someone (or some_thing_) leapt out of the darkness.

_There must be something about this area that he wants me to notice, _Irene thought to herself, spinning on her heel while simultaneously scanning her surroundings. It was almost pitch black where she was standing now, far from the harsh lights of the helicopter beams.

_There. _

Sprinting towards the left she came to the metal fence that surrounded the far edge of the landing pad. A small piece of fabric was stuck to a broken wire, hanging limp in the still air. She grabbed it and tucked it into the pocket with her cell phone. A grin played on the corner of her mouth as she ducked through a conveniently cut hole in the fence.

She continued to run into the dark of the desert, looking over her shoulder every once in awhile. Sherlock's plan probably did not involve seeing Irene again. He had done his part of the deal and was not the type to stick around for niceties and thank yous. But Irene was determined to see him at least once before they took their more permanent separate ways.

He would probably be heading the same way she was, away from the rebel encampment. That is, if he had survived (_of course he had_). Irene had run quite a ways to the east, therefore even though they were headed on the same path, she wouldn't be likely to cross him unless she changed course. So she started to jog in a diagonal direction towards her left, hoping that he had escaped the scene long enough after her that their paths would eventually cross.

After about ten minutes she froze: there was a car was parked in the distance, only barely visible as a small blip on the horizon. It was still dark enough for her black chador to give her enough camouflage for her to feel confident walking towards it. She had two theories:

The car belonged to the rebels who were waiting for her dead body so they could transport it and likely burn it.

The car belonged to Sherlock.

When she got close enough she was able to see that there was no one in the car or in the immediate area. So she peeked into the windows. There was a gun, a change of clothes in the back seat, and miscellaneous weapons strewed on the floor behind the front seats.

This car definitely belonged to Sherlock. He must have been held up longer than expected. She resisted the urge to walk back towards the landing pad to check on the situation. Instead, she opened the passenger door (conveniently unlocked, as if he had expected her), and sat down. Waiting.

Her mind began to drift, no matter how hard she tried to stop it. What was she trying to accomplish by meeting him here? She should be gone, heading to a different country, starting a new life. What was keeping her here?

_Curiosity killed the cat. _

She had to know why Sherlock had saved her, what could have sparked this sort of reaction in him that he would risk his life for her? She wanted to know how he had planned it and how he pulled it all off. Her brain was humming with theories and she needed him to confirm at least one of them. The thrill she got from their game of wits had kept her near. This was the game that seemed to define their relationship; the game that kept them both coming back for more.

"Oh."

She jerked upright and then relaxed as she saw Sherlock slipping into the seat beside her. She had been so lost in her thoughts that she had had a temporary lapse of vigilance, a lapse that could have potentially been fatal.

"Hello," she said.

Sherlock didn't respond. He was covered in dirt, sweat, and blood. Irene couldn't tell whether it was his own blood or the rebel's; most likely a mix of both. She couldn't see any large injuries, gashes or wounds. Sherlock put the key in the ignition and shifted the car into gear without looking once at her. He had taken off the scarf that had covered his face, his hair matted and stuck to his head with sweat.

He was buzzing.

The car screeched as he slammed the gas with his foot, sending a cloud of dust into the air around them. She could see headlights of at least three other vehicles in the distance which were slowly approaching them. Sherlock turned the car around in a quick 3-point manoeuvre and headed in the opposite direction, driving straight into the desert without a map. That wouldn't be any sort of problem though, since the map had long been stored in his mind.

Soon he had managed to find the main highway from Karachi and began to head north; speeding just enough to sustain the adrenaline high that they both continued to ride. They still hadn't exchanged a single word.

He drove for three hours straight, entering Nawabshah in the early morning. They had stripped their previous clothing and thrown it onto the highway near the beginning of the highway, changing into less conspicuous outfits that Sherlock had packed in the back seat (which had been quite an interesting situation since Sherlock had refused to stop the vehicle). Once again, they hadn't exchanged a word of significance; both of them were too bound up in their own thoughts to communicate with one another.

Irene leaned her head against the window and watched the desert landscape pass by as the sun slowly began to rise. Sherlock was driving over the speed limit, passing every car he caught up to, driving just close enough to them to palpitate her heart. Sustaining the high.

She allowed herself to think back on the preceding events. His voice had lifted the dread from her heart. That one word had managed to give her hope. Obviously she had made enough of an impression on him that he would risk his own life to save hers. He was the only person she knew who could have pulled that off.

She thought about the looks on the rebel's faces: a mixture of surprise, confusion and horror all at once. They hadn't known what had hit them. _Only Mr. Sherlock Holmes himself, _she thought.

Soon, without being able to stop herself, a smile broke out across her face. She began to laugh, quietly at first but it soon grew louder. Sherlock glanced at her before turning his attention back to the road. A smile danced in his eyes before spreading to the corners of his lips. Before long, he had fully joined her; a deep chuckle that almost deafened them both after the hours of silence. The whole situation felt surreal.

Sherlock pulled onto a dirt road and drove for another twenty minutes before stopping in a lot with a single small clapboard house. There were no other buildings as far as she could see and it looked like this one had been abandoned for at least a few months. No tire tracks, footprints, or signs of life besides animal droppings.

She got out and stretched, watching the pink sunrise coming up over the horizon. The plot of land Sherlock had driven them to appeared to be a small banana plantation that had been abandoned not long ago. It didn't matter what had happened to the place, all that mattered was that they could not be found.

So here they were in the barren bedroom- safe for the moment. Both waiting for the other to say something first. Irene closed her eyes and ran her hands over her hair, tugging at the ends to feel the pull at her scalp. _Alive._

"Thank you."

"Don't."

"I have a right to thank you," she told him.

"Whatever you may be thinking, I'm not the saviour you have made me out to be."

"Whoever said that I think of you as my saviour?" Irene said, attempting to swallow down the truth that hovered beneath that question.

"No one said it. Your face showed it when you first heard my voice."

"Well really, you can't blame me for being elated that I wasn't going to die."

_How typical, _Irene thought, _arguing about trivialities after having escaped a life or death situation. _

"Let me say it," she said, attempting to hold his gaze which seemed to be flitting everywhere except her eyes. It landed on her nose, forehead, her hair. Quite unusual behaviour for Mr. Deduction.

"Fine," he responded after a brief moment of silence.

"Thank you."


	5. A Game of Theories

So I lied, rated M next chapter, (they just kept on talking and talking...)

This chapter continues in a flashback following Irene's rescue in Karachi.

* * *

Just Outside Nawabshah

Dawn had just begun to break. The sun's glow struggled to make its way through the faded curtain of the only window in the bedroom. Irene had said her thanks to Sherlock, now she had closed her eyes and stretched out upon the bed. She was surprisingly content just to be alive, just to have the chance to stretch her arms above her head with a sigh. Tendons straining with her reach.

When she opened her eyes again, she saw that Sherlock was staring at her.

She felt strangely bare. Though she could be naked in front of the man without batting an eyelash, there was something more intimate about being under his deducing eye. She twisted around onto her side, propped her head up with her hand and met his gaze with equal fervour.

"Now don't let that thank you get to your head," she said.

"I didn't need it in the first place," Sherlock replied. Before he had barely finished that sentence, he had turned and was beginning to leave the room. Of course he didn't feel the need to offer any explanation why.

"Where are you off to now?"

"I have no need for sleep. My original plans were to stay here for a night until you left the country, but seeing that you're now here, it doesn't seem necessary."

"You couldn't possibly leave without telling me how you did it first," Irene said, knowing all too well that Sherlock couldn't refuse an opportunity to flaunt his plans. He had undoubtedly spent much time fretting over the details and was itching to show them off.

She watched with amusement as his mind faltered between the two choices, and then settled upon the seemingly non-harmful alternative of staying awhile to give her a little test.

"Tell me your theory. I'm sure you have one," he told her.

"I have more than one, but only a couple that are feasible."

Sherlock suddenly perked up, straightening himself and placing his hands in a prayer position under his chin as his mind began to churn. He was interested in what she had deduced from the situation and he was even more curious about the possibility of her getting it right.

Irene began, "You quite obviously heard about my situation through my file in Mycroft's not-so-secure collection. The government has an inexplicable need for documenting everything that vaguely involves them."

"I do suspect that Mycroft had an even closer eye on you due to his apparent interest in your chosen career."

Irene chuckled at this, suspecting as much. Anything that had to do with sex seemed to interest even the most adamant abstainers. Evidence for this theory could plainly be seen in Sherlock's original interest in her case. Something about her career seemed to have interested him. _But, _she thought to herself, _something more than that must have kept him around and then brought him here. Mustn't it have?_

"As you know, I didn't have much of an opportunity to be a dominatrix after that whole affair. Without the protection of my information, I became a moving target."

Sherlock nodded his head as if to tell her that he already knew this. He began to pace the room, hands still pointed under his chin,

"Go on."

"So you learned of the men who kidnapped me and their position against the Pakistani government. You flew over here, infiltrated their members by disguising yourself as a fellow radical, and convinced them that you had a personal vendetta against English women and needed to be on the killing floor. Not before planning your escape route thoroughly beforehand of course. It's quite simple really."

"Quite simple yes, you seem to have underestimated the difficulties of infiltrating an overly suspicious group of rebels. Especially when you are tall white man. Try again."

Sherlock stopped his pacing and raised an eyebrow, challenging her with a look. She wasn't worried about disappointing him though; she had a few other theories on her mind.

"When you arrived here you managed to track one of the rebels who was questioning his radical position, learned all you could about him and his mien, then took his place."

"Good. How?"

"You wouldn't have killed him, homicides are too easy to trace when they're unneeded. You offered him money probably; it's what makes the world go round, isn't it? Then you told him to fly somewhere exotic... Australia perhaps. In exchange for his identity."

"Very impressive Ms. Adler," Sherlock said with a grin, "But it was a more elaborate story than that. In order to get him to stay in Australia without him defecting on his word, I had to threaten him with his life. Quite a standard procedure to get anyone to do anything, really."

He was leaning closer to her now; on him she could smell a mixture of sweat and hastily put on cologne. His cologne was stronger than usual due to his elevated body heat. He had splashed some water from an outdoor pump onto his face and hair earlier, washing off most of the dried blood. Suffice to say, they hadn't the luxury of a shower in this place.

"Very true. Now, with his identification and some careful disguising, you made sure to meet them only at the last possible moment. They were all so excited about killing the English woman that any discrepancies between you and the original would have been overlooked."

"And so it was."

"Then we both know what happened next: you told me to run and so I did. But I must say, it's a bit tricky to figure out how you managed to subdue so many men without getting killed."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at this, evidently amused at her jab at his fighting ability.

"Try," he told her in a voice so low that it reverberated through her chest.

She took a moment to look him over, searching for clues. Though he had washed most of the blood smudges off of his face, now she could see the scratches and cuts that had clotted since the fight.

"You obviously killed the man to my right with your machete... but there were three more men to my left, and countless others milling about in the helicopter and jeeps. They must have all swarmed you within seconds."

She paused to look him over again, noticing a sparkle of amusement in his eyes. At least she wasn't the only one who was enjoying this. If she were to play any game with any person in the world, the most enthralling one would always be 'deduction with Sherlock Holmes'. Though she must admit, crime with Moriarty was a close runner up.

"Seconds would be plenty to plan an attack though, especially since they were mostly stunned and reacting slower than normal. You grabbed the pistol off of the dead man's body and walked backwards towards the helicopter..."

She reached out and grabbed his wrist. Sherlock didn't seem concerned at her touch; he understood what she was looking for. Two red marks encircled were imprinted there, impressions of fingerprints from a tight grip.

"There was only one man who had been behind you, the helicopter pilot."

"Good," Sherlock said, pulling his wrist away from her grip almost too abruptly. He attempted to counterbalance the act by glancing at his wrist and then placing it calmly behind his back. She wondered if he was trying to keep her from checking his pulse.

"He snuck up behind you and grabbed your wrist so you grabbed his head with your other arm," she continued, seeing the scene unfold clearly in her head as she told it, "and pulled him in front of you, gun to his head."

"Something like that."

Irene ignored his comment; obviously she had been right since he hadn't outright contradicted her. She knew as soon as she said something wrong he would be there to correct her. She sat up now, head level with his stomach. She leaned back to get a better view of his face.

"There's a scratch on your left temple, it looks like a fingernail. My guess is that a man attempted to lunge at you and you shot him before he could do as much as hit you with his fingertip."

"Obviously they weren't too concerned about their comrade's fate," Sherlock scoffed.

"But you didn't shoot your hostage," Irene continued, "so that must mean that you needed him. Because he could fly a helicopter... Really, you flew a helicopter and I didn't notice? I find that hard to believe."

Sherlock grinned.

"I didn't leave the ground."


	6. Abandon

He was nudging her on now; he wanted to test her deduction abilities on the spot. He visibly hummed with excitement, like a child trying not to spoil a surprise party. She straightened her back and lowered her gaze, examining Sherlock's shoes. They were the only things that he hadn't changed since last night.

They were caked with dust.

"You obviously told your hostage to turn on the helicopter blades to create an impenetrable dust storm... which made it easy for you to escape unseen," she paused.

"...You really don't know how to turn on a helicopter?"

"Never interested me," Sherlock replied tersely, not enjoying her jab.

"Then that's all," she said, satisfied with her conclusions, "but, there is one thing that I haven't figured out yet..."

Sherlock seemed excited to be able to explain at least one thing that she hadn't already guessed.

Irene shifted her position; kneeling on the bed so she could be face to face with him. He didn't move towards her, but he didn't move away either, curious as to what she was going to do next.

She slowly raised her pointer finger to his lips, resting the tip against a red mark on the lower one. It looked like an old scar, but it had been aggravated by something recent. She could feel his breath on her hand, slow and steady.

"This," she said.

The light banter of their previous conversation had seemingly vanished at her word. A sudden tension had sparked between them; not necessarily sexual but something close to it. Her heart began to beat slightly faster. She closed her eyes for the briefest moment, attempting to slow it. It wasn't as if she had never felt this way before in his presence, she was all too familiar with the way in which he seemed to set her body on edge.

But... this time was strikingly different from all of the others. This time no one was watching. There was no Moriarty, no Mycroft, and no John. It was only the two of them, unaltered by the presence of others.

She looked into Sherlock's eyes which quickly met her own. She could practically see the thoughts running through his mind, frantically reasoning just beyond her reach.

"That..," Sherlock spoke, shifting her finger with the movement of his mouth, "is a childhood scar."

"But it's red now, not white like usual. I've missed something."

Sherlock suddenly pulled away from her finger and glanced downward. She could tell by the way he avoided her gaze that this explanation was going to be good.

"Tell me," she ordered him, "come on, I've guessed right so far, I deserve a reward."

He unconsciously flicked his tongue over the scar before curtly saying: "I bit it."

"You bit it? How so?" Irene teased him, knowing that there was more behind the reason why he bit it than he was willing to share.

"I bit it when I opened my getaway car door and there was a person in a dark hijab sitting next to me," he said all at once in a burst.

"You thought I was someone coming to kill you?"

"No, I immediately recognized that it was you after the briefest second of..." he paused.

"Panic?" Irene offered. Sherlock scoffed, as if that wasn't the word he was looking for, but she knew that it was the only word he could think of. She was extremely satisfied to hear this news, not only had she guessed everything right about his plans, she had also succeeded in making him think that he had failed. Even if it were only for a split second.

Irene reached out and grabbed his arm, pulling him closer to her. She could see that he didn't like her brazen touch, but he didn't wrench his arm away.

"Admit it," Irene said with a sly grin, "you were shocked to see me."

"...Yes. I don't see why shock would be an unexpected reaction to a strange person in my ca-."

"You didn't see it coming, did you?" Irene cut him off.

Sherlock stared back at her with an intensity that matched her own.

"I thought you had more common sense than to return," he scoffed.

"If I had left, I would have missed out on all of this fun," she replied, her voice dropping lower.

Sherlock was slightly perplexed at her answer, it was wholly unreasonable. He searched her face for some sort of clue to another message veiled behind her words. He felt a stirring in his stomach that was telling him that there was something more to this situation than he could put his finger on... and his inability to discern it was making him uncomfortable.

Could it be her unfortunate sentiment once again? Of course it was. But, somehow it didn't seem as repulsive to him as it had before. Before it had been poorly hidden beneath lies that he had no trouble deciphering. Now, it was so unabashedly in the open that it made him uncomfortable.

Her hand tensed around his arm, reminding him that she was still there, pulling him back into the present.

"And I think this whole situation is far too complex for common sense anyway, isn't it?" she asked, her voice softer than it had been. She could see Sherlock's confusion in his eyes; emotion had never been his strong point. This wasn't London, the situation had changed. Their mutual admiration of each other's intellect had been given the opportunity to grow without the constraint of reality. It was if they were stuck in a dream, an alternate reality that had seemed to have affected Sherlock's usual abhorrence of intimacy, albeit only slightly.

She could feel his pulse. 100 beats per minute.

This wasn't just about physical intimacy, no. She had touched Sherlock before, and none of those touches had had any effect on him at all. Now with the abundance of cortisol and adrenaline flooding their brains, the physical touch between the two of them had seemed to enhance the connection of their minds. And that was just with the touch of an arm.

When he didn't respond to her question, she decided to make it a bit easier for him to come up with an answer. She moved her hand from its grip on his arm to his back, flexing her fingers against the cool cotton of his shirt. He looked down at her, watching... curious.

She pushed her palm against his back, bringing him closer to her. She was still kneeling on the edge of the bed; her front was almost flush against his. He brought his head down, peering at her with the same fiercely deductive eye as he gave her at their first meeting. She could feel his breath quicken against her nose.

Slowly, she leaned forward and placed her lips against his scar. Sherlock's breath caught in his throat.

"Contrary to what most mothers believe, saliva will not heal a wound any faster than normal," Sherlock said with slightly ragged breath. His voice had dropped considerably lower.

"I'm not attempting to heal a scar Sherlock. I'm trying to do something that has been on both of our minds for approximately thirteen minutes. That is... if I've properly assessed the situation."

He felt a slowly rising heat spread from his groin to his chest. The feeling was not completely unfamiliar to him, though he had attempted to avoid it whenever he was working on a case, which was admittedly most of the time. He considered sexual arousal as an impediment to his work, a useless expenditure of energy. If he had no want of procreation, why should he indulge himself in masturbation?

Irene pulled away.

"This is quite a senseless situation, isn't it?" she repeated her previous question slowly.

_You can let go of reason with me Sherlock, if only for an hour. Can't you see there's nothing to lose here? There's no game right now, no case, no guises. _The words that she wanted to say were shoved to the back of her mind. She needed to make him see this for himself or else she would never get what she wanted.

A tension-filled silence hung between them.

"...Yes," Sherlock replied.

His voice was so low that she couldn't help but moan in response. There was no doubt where his intentions lay as he leaned close to her once more, eyes searching her face for a cue to his next action. A flush had spread over her chest and cheeks.

Sherlock's arousal had distracted her to the point that she could no longer constrain herself. This is what she had fantasized about on lonely nights when she sent him texts for dinner. She was tired of waiting for him to make the first move. It was her time to take control.

Irene grabbed Sherlock's collar and pulled his face to hers. He looked into her eyes with the same intensity that he felt at the apex of a case. Irene was surprised at the speed in which he responded to her pull. Contrary to her plan to kiss him first, he grabbed the back of her head and pushed her towards him fervently.

Before their lips were able to touch, Sherlock made sure to have the last word:

"I realize that you had wanted to be in control Miss Adler, but you must understand that any attempt at that would be futile."

Before she could respond he had placed his lips against her own, gentle at first but quickly building into a crescendo of passion. It was evident that Sherlock had had at least one partner to practice on in the past, but at the moment she wasn't too interested in taking the time to speculate on it.

Sherlock leaned forward and pushed Irene back onto the bed. She backed up enough to give him room to lie above her, still kissing passionately all the while. He paused to catch his breath, staring into her eyes. She shivered, it was as if he had peered into her mind and read her thoughts and was now slightly amused about what he saw. He smirked.

"You mustn't look so shocked," he said, moving his lips to her collarbone and kissing it. Irene moaned, stretching her pelvis up to brush his hips.

"Why should I be shocked?" she murmured, amused at the way in which his hips ground down to meet hers.

"'The Virgin'," he simply stated, burying his mouth into her neck.

Irene smiled, hooking a leg up and around the back of his thighs. She reached up and began to run her hands through his hair, surprised that it had taken her this long to do it. The curls wound their way around her fingers, thick and slightly stiff from the dried sweat and water.

"I should let you know that Moriarty never said that, I made it up to get a rise out of two arrogant brothers," she told him, nipping at the side of his neck gently with her teeth. Sherlock paused, smirked into the side of her neck, and then began to trail his lips lower.

She was wearing a buttoned shirt with the top two already undone. Sherlock paused before the first button and backed up. Irene knew right away what he had spotted.

He placed his hand into the pocket just above her breast and pulled out the piece of fabric that she had stashed there from earlier. After examining it for a moment, he placed it beside them on the bed.

"I knew that I could depend on your observant nature," he told her.

"I never forget anything that I've worn."

Her cheeky comment and daring look in her eyes were the breaking point to his reservations; she effectively drove Sherlock over the edge. He pushed against her roughly and grabbed a handful of her hair. With hands still wound tightly in his curls, she tugged at the roots to bring his lips against her own.

The banter was now over.

Sherlock moved his hand from her hair to her breast, cupping it with his palm while emitting a guttural growl. It was a quiet sign of his approval, amplified to her ears due to their close proximity. Irene arched her back, pushing her breast further into his palm. She relished in Sherlock's arousal that spurred on her own; fascinated with the new found realization of Sherlock as a sexual being.

She slowly moved her hands from his hair to his back, rubbing the spot between his shoulder blades before bringing her palms around to his chest. She could feel his heart beating against her hands. His buttons were straining against her touch, so she undid them with deft fingers. When she had reached the last one, she pulled her lips away from his to look at what she had disrobed.

Smooth white skin with the occasional scar or recent scratch. Just like her own.

She ran her hands over his bare chest, down to his stomach then up to his nipples. His eyes were closed, storing every feeling that she elicited permanently in his mind. She gently squeezed a hardened nipple between her thumb and forefinger, grinning at his gaping mouth.

Suddenly, Sherlock opened his eyes. He stared down at her with a hunger she had seldom seen. He was eager to undo her shirt buttons, taking them apart to reach her skin. His hands trailed over her ribs, taking satisfaction in the trail of goose bumps his fingertips left behind. She noticed how his hands were large enough to cup half of her ribs. Palms large enough to crush them; forearms strong enough to do it.

While watching his hands work, Sherlock had managed to take off her shirt entirely. He was now running a hand over her hips, along the curve of her stomach, and up to her breasts. He was propped over top of her with his elbow on the mattress holding him steady. Irene ran her hands up over his shoulders and pushed his open shirt off of them; trailing her fingertips over his biceps.

One must not forget that Ms. Irene Adler was quite skilled in the art of seduction.

Sherlock dipped his head lower, nipping at her stomach with his teeth and grabbing the waistband of her pants with restless fingers. Irene lifted her hips upward, giving him permission to slide the faded khakis over her slender hips and off her feet. He threw them to the wall behind him; they cut through the air with a whip-like swish.

He kissed her thighs, slowly trailing his lips inward. She could tell that he was listening to her pulse and breathing pattern, determining where to move his lips based on her subtle clues. His mind had not yet shut off; he was using deduction to give _her_ pleasure. All of the years he had spent honing his skills... she wondered if he had ever envisioned their use in this particular situation.

Probably not.

His lips brushed over her underwear, causing her to groan in approval. She looked down at his head, a mass of dark curls dipping downwards, nose buried between her legs. She smiled.

Irene finally had him right where she wanted him, wholly absorbed in _her. _Throwing her head back, (still with a smile on her lips), she reveled in the moment. Sherlock noticed her rapture and therefore determined that she preferred it when he lingered. So he did.

An increased amount of perspiration on her skin, a sheen over her chest, and a pulse detectable in her groin. Shifted weight, pushing up towards him, burying him deeper in her. He brought a hand up to her stomach, noticed it tense under his touch. _Muscle tension indicates increased arousal._ He slipped a finger under the thin elastic waistband, slowly tugging downwards, watching her face the whole time.

Her eyes were closed.

Wet lips pushed gently against her flesh; the flick of a tongue. She arched her back into his touch. He continued to watch her, eyes straining upwards as he closed his lips around her clit. _Body weight shifted slightly to the left, so if I move my tongue to the left as well..._ Irene moaned.

Suddenly, she sat up and grabbed his head, pulling it fiercely up to her own. His eyes were almost black, a grin of satisfaction lurking just behind them. His lips did not betray his amusement.

Irene kissed him, throwing herself at him with abandon. Her arms entwined around his neck as he struggled to take off his pants. She could feel his hardness pressed against her inner thigh, causing a surge of arousal to flood towards her core.

A man had never managed to turn her on like this before, considering she had mostly seen herself to be a lesbian. But sexuality was not pure black and white; especially when it came to Sherlock. She was convinced the man was an asexual and not normally tempted by the wiles of women. Yet, here the two of them were: the lesbian and the asexual, legs entwined in a fit of passion.

He had now completely taken off her underwear and was eager to fulfill their desire for skin-to-skin contact. They were now naked, pressed flush to one another, and as vulnerable as either had even been.

The heat was almost unbearable.

She opened her legs, wrapped the right one around his back, and looked up at him as if to dare him to enter her.

He took up the challenge.

When he slid inside her Irene felt herself truly let go, as if the final barrier between them had finally been broken. There had always been a buzzing undercurrent of thoughts in their minds throughout the entire interaction, and now she could even feel the freedom taking over Sherlock. She wanted to scream, but the sound was caught in her throat.

He was slow at first, sliding his chest over her own as if to get over the sensory need of skin-on-skin. Then, he propped himself up over her again, and began to thrust faster. Irene pushed her hips up to meet his, setting the rhythm to their breathing pattern.

In sync.

Nothingness and wholeness simultaneously flowed throughout her mind; a confusing combination that she could only have ever expected Sherlock to elicit. Her muscles tightened around him, pregnancy the last thing on her mind. Sherlock had already known that she had taken a long-term form of birth control and was therefore unconcerned with the possibility.

They were both sweating, the friction of their bodies adding to the already humid room. They had both been surprisingly quiet up to this point. Sherlock began to grunt with the effort of sustaining his arousal and the physical exertion. Irene's voice found its way out of the back of her throat, echoing throughout the room in a deep moan. Somewhere in the back of his mind Sherlock categorized this noise; right next to the sound of her ringtone.

An orgasm wracked its way through her body, caused by the friction of his pelvis against her clit, (which would not have been possible if it were not for her incredible state of arousal.) When Sherlock saw that she was orgasming he could only hold off for a few more moments, ensuring that she was satisfied before thrusting deeply into her one last time.

Irene would never be able to forget the sound he made; a deep and throaty moan that she could feel deep in her chest.

Ragged breaths filled the air. An increasingly uncomfortable silence grew as the seconds passed.

Sherlock didn't look at her after he had finished and simply rolled over. He had to force himself not to touch her; shielding himself with whatever willpower he had left against the growing sentiment he felt towards her. Irene had supposed that his treatment of her was for some sort of enraging reason such as 'protection against emotion'.

She concealed her displeasure and turned over as well, feeling her sweat cool against her forehead. She then pretended to fall asleep after twenty minutes, slowing her breathing and inducing sleep-like tremors.

The weight of the bed shifted, followed by the sound of bare feet on the wood floor. She could hear him put on his clothes and run his hands through his hair. She couldn't possibly have known if he had looked at her before he left, but she knew that it wouldn't have mattered.

The last thing Irene expected Sherlock to be was sentimental.

* * *

I very much appreciate reviews. Thank you for reading.


	7. Mr and Mrs

Sorry about the delay in updating. The story picks up back in London (a couple of days after where chapter 3 left off).

I suppose I should have planned this out better.

* * *

London, Present

Irene tapped her fingers against the table absentmindedly, growing more frustrated by the moment. The stupid man had gone to the bathroom ten minutes ago and still wasn't back. It was a public restroom for Christ's sake!

The man she was waiting for was Mr. Tripton: stock trader and part-time gambler. Chad Tripton was one of the dullest men she had ever had the pleasure of knowing. She just had to get him alone, or distract him, and then this whole thing would be over with.

_Finally, _she sighed in her mind as a middle-aged man exited the loo in the back of the cafe, zipping up his fly on the way. She feigned a smile, feeling it crack at the corners of her mouth under the weight of her boredom.

"As I was saying, the prime spot to catch walleye is by the north shore of-"

"Chad," Irene interrupted him, not in the mood for another hour of exaggerated fishing tales, "I really do have to get going. This has been marvellous..."

She made sure to keep eye contact with him as she said this, pouting her lips ever-so-slightly to get him to glance at them. _That's right, keep your eyes on my face._

"But I really do need to get going; my lunch break is only so long."

"A shame, I've enjoyed this." Chad said earnestly, picking up the bill for a black coffee and tea from the table, "I've got the bill."

Irene smiled at him blithely. _I'm very impressed with those £3, but I think I'll be charging slightly more for my time._

Just her luck, the man had been daft enough to leave the briefcase under the table as he went to the register. It seemed that this would be a much easier job than she had anticipated, no diversions required.

Making sure that he was absorbed in the details of counting his change, she slipped her fingers around the handle of the case and left the cafe without a glance back. She walked briskly but showed no sign of anxiety; she simply intended to blend in with the mass of business people around her carrying identical cases.

She glanced back after five minutes, struck out her arm to hail a taxi, and slipped into the back seat.

The last she saw of Chad Tripton was a man frantically scanning the horizon for something he had lost; both hands on either side of his head in a terror-stricken state of panic.

Half an hour later Irene was at Heathrow Airport, a sense of unease settling over her as she accepted her luggage from the cabbie that she had packed in the trunk before leaving her flat that morning. Everything was going too smoothly, but she just attributed it to her impeccable planning.

She wheeled her bag behind her with one hand, the other wrapped tightly around the briefcase. Definitely carry-on material. Her boarding pass was already printed and stowed safely in her luggage, so she headed to the security queue.

A few heads turned as she passed by; nothing out of the ordinary, especially since she had pulled out her Prada dress for the occasion. Her still blonde locks were wrapped in a low bun at the nape of her neck and her Jimmy Choos were eliciting jealous stares by some of the younger women in line. She reveled in the attention, missing the contented feeling that came along with looking her best.

She had paid the extra fee for first class and passed the queue of annoyed passengers to the VIP line. The security guard smiled pleasantly at her, nodding his head as he stuck out his hand for her boarding pass.

Irene unzipped the top pocket of her luggage and reached into it. She felt nothing there. Panic set in for the briefest of moments, but she didn't let it show on her face.

"I must have misplaced it, one moment," she told the guard with a smile. She turned to examine the pocket; empty. Oh god, would she have to resort to digging through her entire luggage in front of everyone? She had sworn that it was in there not an hour before...

"Irene."

She snapped up straight and turned, faced with a man that she had (almost) completely forgotten about in the excitement of her plans. Her face dropped.

"You gave me the passes; I was just in the loo."

Sherlock smiled at the security guard as he handed him two tickets. The guard scanned them and handed them back.

"Thank you Mr. and Mrs. Adler, have a good trip."

Irene nodded her head, trying her hardest not to let her annoyance show. Who did he think he was? Intruding on her plans like this; inviting himself on this trip. He had nothing else better to do than budge his way into everyone else's business apparently.

Then again, how much could a dead person have to do? He had simply been waiting for a moment to come alive. Irene was merely a distraction for his boredom.

She didn't as much glance at him through security, at their gate, and as they boarded the plane. Of course they were seated together; she supposed he had made sure of that. Along with the fake identity of her husband, ensuring that he was tied to her throughout this entire plan.

They didn't talk until the plane had taken off; Sherlock was reclined in his seat, eyes examining the roof of the first class cabin.

"Why Canada?" he asked.

"It's really none of your business."

"What's in the briefcase?" he continued, obviously ignoring her comment, "I assume something that can be used for a large amount of money. You realize that you'll never work for the British government again. "

"That's what I had planned," Irene replied with a roll of her eyes.

"Wise."

She closed her eyes as if suffering from a sudden headache, wrinkling her brow in the process.

"Now that you're here I suppose I can use you," she said with a sigh.

Sherlock perked up at this, glancing over at Irene. He hated to seem anxious about the prospect of learning everything that she had been up to; he had just been so incredibly _bored _these past few months that he would do anything for an interesting case. And here was Irene, presenting him with a juicy mystery that he was itching to solve.

But he didn't want to seem too eager.

"Oh?"

"A dead man could be useful."

* * *

Reviews are always appreciated.


	8. Canada

Voila!

* * *

"_We will be preparing for departure in twenty minutes to Vancouver, British Columbia. Local time is 4:45 pm; it's currently cloudy and around 16 degrees Celsius. Thank you for flying British Airways."_

Sherlock was impatiently tapping a finger on his armrest, making a point not to look at Irene. A flight attendant was gathering up her empty wine glass and napkins. They had barely exchanged a word in the past six hours, Irene feigning sleep for most of it. She was obviously spending her time formulating a new version of her previous plans to include Sherlock in them.

He held back his itching tongue, deciding to wait until they got to the hotel to discuss everything that he wanted to know. Right now, he preferred to spend his free time flaunting the deductions he had managed to make about his fellow passengers. He only had fifteen minutes.

"Blonde woman, sitting to our right, mid-thirties," he spoke in a quick and low voice, his eyes fixated on the back of the woman's head. Irene shifted her gaze to follow his, raising an eyebrow in curiosity. She had managed to make some deductions of her own to pass the time, and wondered if they would match with his.

"She's been hiding her cell phone in her pocket every time an attendant walks by, but furiously texts when she suspects no one is watching. She unconsciously twists the ring on her left hand before sending the next message, suggesting that the messages are to a husband... or more likely a lover. Her affair causes her to subconsciously touch the artifact that reminds her of her guilt."

Irene leaned towards Sherlock slightly, bringing her mouth towards his ear. She couldn't resist passing him a seductively low whisper:

"Could you read the texts?"

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows, he had been trying to follow the texting woman's fingers, but she was often out of his view, or typing too fast for him to string together the sentence. The woman suddenly glanced around and pulled her phone out of her pocket, furiously sending a final message to her lover before the stewardess passed by.

"Arriving soon. This week will be ours, Gary is gone for now," Irene whispered into Sherlock's ear once more. She could feel her breath, hot and sweet from wine, radiating off his skin as she spoke. He was still as stone.

Sherlock looked quickly at Irene without moving his head; impressed at her ability to put together the woman's fervent, and often error-riddled message. Irene simply raised her eyebrow before leaning back into her seat; smug.

"You should learn it, it's a useful skill," she told him as the plane began to descent. She didn't expect any praise, but his shocked silence was plenty enough to flatter her. Sherlock was angry at having been shown up, but he wasn't about to admit defeat. As soon as he had the chance he would have to start studying the art of reading texting fingers.

He slumped back into his seat in a bit of a pout, too self-absorbed and frustrated to notice the faint smile that had crept onto the corners of Irene's lips.

* * *

They arrived by cab at a towering five-star hotel in the heart of downtown Vancouver. A cool breeze from the nearby ocean wove its way through the buildings; barely moving Irene's expertly coiffed updo as they entered the lobby.

It was quite a simple feat to get Sherlock added into her room, especially since he had somehow managed to get a fake ID of a blonde man with the last name of Adler. Irene could assume that he had finagled his homeless network into getting it on promise of future pay.

The two of them passed quite easily as husband and wife, in the way that lovers are often said to resemble siblings. Though they did not show any sort of outwards affection towards one another, she knew that the only couples who were constantly groping and batting their eyelashes were newlyweds or affairs. That was not who they were trying to pass as.

Their room was on the tenth floor. There was one double bed and a pull out sofa for Sherlock; that is if he decided to sleep at any point on this trip. She had spent most of the plane ride deciding what she was going to tell Sherlock, as well as how she could use him to her advantage.

He was sure to have noticed the briefcase that had belonged to Chad at her feet throughout the flight, but he had yet to question her on it. He seemed to know that she would tell him what he wanted; therefore he had no reason to press her for information. Either that or he had already guessed what this whole trip was about and was simply waiting for her to confirm his suspicions.

She sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled off her high heels, rubbing the balls of her feet as her eyes followed a pacing Sherlock across the room. The man never seemed to shut off or have the ability to relax; always so hyperactive.

Similar to herself in a way, if she hadn't already known the plan in her head she would be itching to hear it as well.

"This briefcase," she said as she picked it up and placed it on her lap, "belongs to a millionaire and just happens to hold the information to an offshore account with about 1.2 million Canadian dollars in it."

"I'd guessed as much," Sherlock replied, "and now you're planning to use me to get that money, aren't you?"

"Well yes, wouldn't you?"

Sherlock was not above stealing, especially since that Tripton fellow was not the most agreeable of fellows; but he was quite disappointed about the seemingly trivial nature of Irene's mission. Going to the bank and pretending to be related to the man, stealing his money, and living happily ever after. Where was the challenge in that?

"You're just a petty thief then," he grumbled, "I don't understand why Mycroft would ever have decided to trust you. He has a tendency to be a bit slow on the draw, but to trust the most cunning woman in the world is quite a new low for him."

"I lied," Irene said, deciding that she gained nothing from continuing to hide the truth. She was pleased that she had managed to make Sherlock believe her, and at the fact that she had now been labelled 'the most cunning woman in the world'.

It was quite the compliment, coming from the most self-absorbed man in the universe.

"I wasn't working for Mycroft, the man would never trust me enough for that, but I did manage to use some of his so-called 'secret' information to my advantage. When he invited me to his _royal_ office to threaten my life for a passcode, I made the most use of my time and swiped some documents off his desk. I used some daft excuse of having to use the lady's room. So I agree, quite slow indeed... for a Holmes man."

Sherlock stood up straighter at this indirect compliment, agreeing that he was the superior of the two brothers and was determined to prove it.

"I knew it all along... so now you're practically excising yourself from Britain for less than a million pounds?" Sherlock asked with a hint of contempt.

"One needs to take an opportunity when it presents itself. Also, making yourself disappear involves quite a bit of money. Look Sherlock, I never asked you to get involved. Whatever disdain you hold for me is inconsequential, you're free to leave at any time."

Sherlock paused to think. He acknowledged her point and considered leaving right then and there, but he couldn't stand being forced back into anonymity in London. Whatever he could do here, no matter how trite, would be more interesting than deducing a million strangers at home.

For once in his life, Sherlock decided to keep his disdain to himself, and let Irene do as she pleased.

"Right," he said, "I'll do whatever need be to aide you in your re-identification. Or whatever it is you're planning to do."

"Good," Irene replied, sighing on the inside of relief that she didn't have to alter her plans again, "we'll talk more in the morning. Now, I need some rest."

She leaned over and shut off the bedside lamp, the only light that had been on in the room. A faint glow from the city outside their window settled over her. Sherlock chose to sit in an armchair facing the bed, fingers steepled beneath his chin. He would be spending most of the night thinking; creating contingency plans for all possible worst case scenarios.

But before he could drift off into his mind, his eyes had settled on Irene's lithe form. She had undone her hair, letting the long blonde locks tumble to her shoulders. His eyes were still adjusting to the darkness, catching the glint of silver on her fingers as she combed them through her roots.

Before he had the chance to look away Irene had pulled her dress over her head. She was unabashed despite being covered merely by a few scraps of fabric.

Sherlock felt a disturbingly familiar heat rise to his forehead as he watched the light settle over the curve of her hip. Instinct pulled his eyes toward her breasts, focusing on the space between them. She wasn't looking at him, but he was sure that she knew where his gaze was falling.

Irene pulled up the comforter to her chin and laid down, turning over onto her side. She could feel his gaze still on her huddled form. She could hear the air thick with his buzzing thoughts, and she wondered if she was in them, or just happened to be in his line of sight.

Not that she was hoping for such a thing, it wouldn't really do her much favour to have the man lusting over her. Though it would be a bit of fun.

Meanwhile Sherlock had closed his eyes tight in concentration, trying his hardest to erase the feelings that had erupted out of seemingly nowhere upon sight of her nearly naked form.

_Sentiment is for the weak. _He repeated the phrase a dozen times in his mind. _You cannot afford to be weak. This will be highly problematic if you keep letting your emotions take hold. Now do what you've done so well the rest of your life, stifle them. _

Sherlock took a deep breath in, counted to ten, and attempted to escape into his mind palace. This technique had never failed him, and he was confident that he would soon be back on a logical track. He was sure of it.

A few seconds passed.

_ Sentiment is for the weak..._

* * *

Reviews are always appreciated :)


	9. Bleach

Irene woke to an empty room. The light of morning was unfittingly cheerful to her mood. _Of course he left, _she thought to herself, _he's so bloody unreliable. _

She stretched her arms above her head and got up to use the bathroom, ignoring the trails of clothing that Sherlock had somehow left strewn around the floor. _He's also incapable of cleaning up after himself, _Irene added, remembering the ramshackle of a flat he used to share with John.

Upon entering the bathroom Irene started, not expecting to see Sherlock towering over the sink. _Quiet though... _Irene added once more. _Stealthy._

"What _are _you doing?" Irene asked incredulously.

Sherlock was bent towards the mirror, examining the part of his hair while holding a squeeze-bottle of what smelled like bleach in his hand. He didn't reply.

"You're going to burn off your face doing it like that," Irene told him, snatching the bottle from his fingers. Sherlock spun around, a look of displeasure on his face.

"What does it matter?" he blurted.

"What matters is the state of your skin. Luckily I have a box of hair dye in my bag; we seem to be a similar colour."

Irene glanced at the bulk-size bottle of bathroom bleach on the floor and cringed, "I really don't understand how men have managed to come this far without constantly maiming themselves."

Sherlock frowned, watching as Irene left the bathroom to rustle around in her suitcase.

"It works perfectly fine; I bleached my hair the first time using this method. I don't think the extra money wasted on packaging is necessary," Sherlock called after her.

"Well you got lucky the first time," Irene replied, pulling out the box with a smiling blonde-woman on the front, "let's not push it."

She opened the box and pulled out its contents, putting on the pair of latex gloves that came with the kit.

"I can do it myself," Sherlock said, staring blankly at his reflection in the mirror. The bathroom had an unflattering yellow-tinged light that seemed to worsen the sallow tones of his skin. Black roots were beginning to grow from his scalp, stopping at the horribly dry bleached hair that covered the rest of his head.

Irene missed his healthy head of black curls, briefly remembering the feel of it as it ran through her fingers. She shook those thoughts out of her head and got to business; determined to at least restore some health to his hair.

"You evidently can't, considering the state of your hair," Irene said, picking up a frail chunk to prove her point.

"Hair quality does not matter, as long as it conceals my identity," Sherlock replied. Irene took this comment as an acceptance of her help and got to work. Without heels she was too short to reach the top of his head, so he knelt down on the floor in front of her, still facing toward the mirror.

She looked at his eyes in his reflection and noticed that he wasn't really there; he was off in his mind making some sort of plans or re-categorizing his mental collection of tobacco ash. As she applied the dye to his roots, combing through his hair to make sure that it was all covered, a sinking feeling settled itself in her stomach.

This would be one of the last times that she would ever see Sherlock; interact with him in such an informal way. After today she would be gone, presumed dead in the eyes of the law, and not willing to come back anytime soon for a visit.

It would be one prolonged vacation under a new identity and that new identity did not include Sherlock in her history. She swallowed down a lump that was forming in her throat; not there because of tears, but due to an ambiguous emotion that combined all of the feelings Sherlock had ever caused.

Irene looked up to watch Sherlock's face in the mirror. He glanced up at the reflection of her eyes.

They were both still, watching each other through the mirror.

"It's funny," Irene said, "that we're here."

Sherlock looked confused, "what's funny about that?"

"From where we've been. First I died, then you did, and here I am about to die again."

Sherlock smiled from one corner of his mouth, "but look at us, we're not actually dead. We've outsmarted death."

"Have we really?"

Irene put her hands down and stripped off the gloves, placing them in the garbage can beside the toilet. Sherlock stood up and turned around to look at her, trying to figure out what exactly she meant by that comment.

"Are you suggesting that we're not 'living' in some fundamental way?" he asked quite brusquely.

"How very astute of you," Irene replied.

She turned and left the bathroom. Sherlock followed her, watching as she stripped off her robe and put on a pair of trousers and a light blouse. She sat down on the edge of the bed and snatched her earrings off of the side table, fumbling with their backings.

"Running from one life to the next, never setting down roots," Irene said without looking up, "at least you have John to ground you. Without real people we just float away."

"Had; I _had _John. I don't know if he'll take me back, I don't know if things will ever be the way they were before," Sherlock said.

He walked towards her, clasping his hands in front of him.

"It's what comes with having a great mind; people tend to want you dead."

Irene grinned at this.

Sherlock continued:

"Anyway, why would we pine for a regular life when we ourselves are anything but normal? I suspect that the roots you are referring to are not to a specific place, but to a person."

Irene shifted.

Sherlock began again, "friends, I must admit, are quite difficult to hold onto. Especially for us of a superior intellect, the average person does not understand us or we soon grow tired of them."

"But," Irene interjected, "John stays with you, and you seem to tolerate him quite well. That's contradictory evidence."

"Is it?" Sherlock asked, "Because I'm not with John right now. Perhaps our friendship has now ended. In any case, I've never had a friend like John in my whole 36 years. I've never met another person who I could talk to without mutual dislike developing. That is, besides you."

Irene couldn't say anything; she couldn't tell him how much she agreed because that would be too intimate, and she couldn't deny it because he would see right through her lie.

"You should rinse out your hair now." The only thing she could say without giving away her thoughts.

Sherlock simply left the room, the sound of the shower starting up behind the bathroom door.

Irene couldn't help her mind from deducing, from going over every intonation that went through Sherlock's voice as he had talked to her. Was he stating a fact; the fact that she was the closest person to him besides John? Or was he letting her onto some sort of deeper feelings he held for her, no matter how convoluted they may have been?

Her eyes drifted to the bathroom door, the sound of his hands through his hair, letting the water pool and splash to the floor of the tub.

In that moment Irene had made up her mind. She only had one chance left to be with Sherlock, to be more than partners in crime, and to let her admiration show. Her thanks to him, no matter how annoying he may have been, for saving her life and for providing her with intellectual stimulation and distraction.

She got up from the bed slowly, undoing the buttons of her blouse.

_The sexiest man in the world, _she thought to herself, relishing in the thought of his mind, _the smartest man to ever exist... and you have him naked in the shower._

Fingers slipped under her waistband, pushing her trousers to the floor.

_And don't forget, he admires you too... you are the only woman who beat him._

Bra clasp between thumb and forefinger, the straps slid down her shoulders to reveal her skin.

_The most important thing to remember Irene: the man is most impressed with his own mind, and you will forever be in second place._

Panties pooled around her ankles, stepping carefully to the door.

She pushed it open, letting the steam settle onto her skin for a moment before walking towards the shower. Sherlock stopped moving, listening to her movements without commenting. He knew what she was doing, and he wasn't yet sure how to react.

Irene pulled open the shower curtain, eyes falling upon Sherlock's naked form before moving up to his face. He was as hard to read as ever, eyebrows slowly pulling together in thought. He didn't look at her naked body, instead focusing solely on her face with all the scrutiny in the world.

Trying her best to push aside his uncomfortable gaze, she instead focused on the heat that was rising between her legs. She stepped into the tub, careful not to slip, and stood face to face with him.

The water splashed against his back, sending a spray against the walls but keeping her relatively dry.

"How can I help you?" he asked; voice low as ever.

Irene stepped forward, placing a palm against his chest, feeling his steady breath. She leaned forwards, looked up into his eyes, and kissed him.

Sherlock didn't protest, though he took a few seconds to throw away his doubts. Once again, she had managed to make him break his vow of abstinence, and so easily too. How she managed to get into his mind, behind his skin, confounded him.

He placed a hand on her lower back, pulling her into the spray, the water flowing over both of their heads and into their eyes. She pressed forward, feeling him hard against her stomach. Shivers ran up her spine.

As if deducing her goosebumps, Sherlock trailed a finger up her vertebrae, to her neck. He grabbed her behind her neck, kissing with all of the passion he could muster. He too realized that this would be their last chance together.

In a strange hotel room, in a different country, the rules were altered once again. And here he was, blinded by lust once more, a feeling that was becoming frustratingly familiar.

Irene ran her fingers down his chest, following the trail of hair from his bellybutton to the thicker mass below his pubic bone. She wrapped a hand around his hardness there, squeezing tightly. Sherlock barely moaned, but she could see the fire start behind his eyes.

He placed his hands on her ass, and without further notice he lifted her up and pushed her against the shower wall. She wrapped her legs around his core, arms around his shoulders. Staring into each others eyes in this way was somehow more intimate than having him on top of her, the intensity of his gaze making her wetter than ever.

Sherlock leaned towards her, his wet fringe dripping onto her head. He kissed her deeply, sucking all of the air out of her, her heart almost beating out of her chest.

His cock was pushing against her entrance and she was ready. She bucked her hips forward, tightening her legs around his waist; and he gently pushed forwards. His entire length slowly filled her, a gasp emitting from somewhere deep in her throat.

He looked at her, making sure that he was doing everything just right, and with a tiny grin he began to thrust. Irene was moaning, trying not to slip down the wall too much because he was hitting a perfect spot. She ground down into him, pushing her clit against his pubic bone as much as she could.

Suddenly, she was being lifted out of the shower, the spray left running. Sherlock carried her out of the bathroom to the double bed, both soaking wet and leaving puddles on the carpet as they walked. Irene was too turned on to care, still connected with him in the most intimate way, physically and mentally.

"Not enough room in a shower," Sherlock said, almost mumbling as he settled himself overtop of her. Irene grinned, grabbing one of Sherlock's biceps before he could slip inside her once more. He was much too impatient.

She pushed him over, flipping him onto his back with little resistance.

"Let's try something a little different this time," Irene said.

She climbed on top of him, hands on his chest holding him down. Positioning her entrance over him she began to tease, slowly dipping down just enough for his tip to enter, and then pulling up again. Sherlock was smiling partly in amazement.

"I can see why men pay good money for this now," he told her.

Irene grinned and kissed him hard before sinking her hips all the way down, her thighs flush with his own. She began to bounce slowly on top of him, manoeuvring her hips to find the perfect spot. When she found it she moaned and sped up.

Sherlock's mind was still enough intact to place two fingers on her clit, rubbing in a slow circular motion that drove her mad. She arched her back, hair cascading from her head like a waterfall. Sherlock began to rub faster.

There was a breaking moment, a snap in both of them as their passions rose over the edge. Flooded with pleasure, Irene moaned as her chest ached with yearning to consume Sherlock as a whole being: his mind, soul, and body.

Sherlock responded in kind, thrusting deep into her before ending it for himself as well.

They lay together, panting with exertion.

With hooded lids, Irene looking down into Sherlock's face. His eyes were closed, he looked truly serene at this moment, a look that Irene had never seen him possess before.

She kissed him gently before rolling off of him.

"That was quite well done," she remarked, not quite sure if Sherlock was even awake.

"I refuse to participate in pillow talk," Sherlock replied, "especially when we both already know that it was 'quite well done'."

Irene smiled and turned over, placing her head on a pillow.

This time as she drifted off to sleep, she had a feeling that he would still be there when she awoke.


End file.
